We're Still the Mercers
by Brandi N. Jones
Summary: One shot. A look into the lives of the Mercer brothers prior to and following the death of Jack, as seen from the point of view of Jerry Mercer, a perspective I haven't come across yet. Rated T, just to be safe, for some adult language and dark themes.


**Author's Note: **This is my first exploration into the _Four Brothers _fandom, and probably my only foray into it, but this was one of those plot-bunnies that absolutely refused to be silenced. Hope you enjoy it. Feedback is, as always, completely welcome and thoroughly appreciated.

**Plot Summary:** Basically, just a look into the lives of the Mercer brothers and the death of Jack, as seen through the eyes of Jeremiah. I haven't seen a piece of fanfiction written from Jerry's point of view yet, although I could be mistaken and please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. It's a one-shot, and has just a little language and a few darker moments in it. I'd rate it PG-13.

**Disclaimer** I don't own any of the characters from the movie _Four Brothers_. I've made no profit from this piece. Please bear this in mind and don't sue me, I'm a broke college kid.

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**We're Still the Mercers**

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I honestly wasn't sure which funeral had been harder to swallow: Ma's or Jack's. 

Ma's had been a lovely service, as funerals go. The graveside ceremony had lasted for the better part of an hour, as it seemed everyone in the community wanted to present a small eulogy commemorating this incredible woman. We knew she'd love it, so we let them. She sure as hell deserved it.

Ironic, isn't it, how horrible circumstances can have the power to bring together so many people? I didn't even recognize half the faces in the sea of mourners, but I knew they had loved my mother. Everyone had. Sometimes it's easy to think your guardian only touches your life, but it's impossible to think so after you see the impact they've made on countless others. It's a shame that it took her absence to display the profound influence of her presence. Evelyn Mercer once told me that even if I only touched the lives of my three brothers and herself, it would be enough. Well, she didn't use the word "enough," she used the word "remarkable." I now believe her, for she had touched hundreds, and "remarkable" didn't even _begin_ to cover it.

Jack's funeral had been a completely different ballpark. It was the shortest I'd ever attended. The minister had seemed restless, as if he wasn't sure how to shed a positive light on someone the whole community had regarded as a lost cause. He had to know that in spite of all the angelic qualities our late mother had possessed, the horrible death our brother had endured had cast a shadow of doubt over our belief in a loving God. In the end, the minister had seemed content with saying little, which was not surprising. What was surprising, however, was that his few words had been the only ones uttered to pay tribute to the nineteen years that Jack Mercer had spent in this world. Not for lack of trying, though. The rest of us were too choked up to do anything but stand there with lips sealed tight and hearts bleeding.

It had been awful to look around and see the lack of mourners paying their last respects to Jack. Either he had no friends outside the family, or they didn't care enough to attend. I'm not sure which of those options is harder to swallow, either.

It had just been the usual suspects: the three remaining Mercer brothers, my wife Camille, and Angel's on-again-off-again girlfriend Sofi (or "La Vida Loca," as Bobby had tastelessly dubbed her, although he dropped the slur after Jack's death; somehow it just wasn't as funny without Jackie laughing at it, I guess.) The women were crying softly, but we men stood there in stoic silence, watching as dirt was tossed down onto the cheap casket that contained the earthly remains of our beloved brother. We had either run out of emotions by this point, or we were simply too numb to realize they were throbbing within us.

We'd lasted through two shovelfuls of soil, but the finality of it was horrible and we were forced to depart before the third scoop hit the metal.

After we had beat a hasty retreat from the cemetery, the women offered up an excuse of needing to prepare the night's meal, which we all knew would go untouched. The words they didn't say hung over us, but it was with a small amount of relief that we accepted them. Camille and Sofi knew what we needed: alone time. Brother time. They had done what they could to support us after the tragedy and now after the funeral, but now it was up to us to cope with the aftershocks.

We had seen the girls off and then the three of us had gathered at a bar. There, we drank shot after shot to Jack's memory like it was going out of style. It may seem inappropriate, but Jack would have understood. Sometimes the best way to deal with pain is to medicate yourself against it. We knew it was only a temporary fix, but it was what we needed. The grieving process would be far longer-lasting, after all, and we had to steel ourselves for it. The buzz would wear off too soon, and the agony would hit us with all the suddenness and jarring impact of a Mack truck. For now, while we still could, we needed to remember our little brother fondly. He had always hated to see us sad, and would practically do cartwheels if he thought it'd cheer us up, but this time, he couldn't help us. We had to help each other. And it was harder than any of us had realized. So if Phase One was getting completely shit-faced, so be it. Whatever it took. No judgment in this inner circle.

It had been a horrible day, and the night was even worse, but we had made sure to arrange our current, temporary living arrangements so as never to be alone.

We had all been carefully avoiding the house. Ma's place had been a safe haven, but now it was riddled with as many memories as bullets. Reminders of Jack were everywhere. Stupid things would undoubtedly set us off, and I would bet my life that Angel and Bobby knew what they were as well as I did. His skates in the hall closet. His jacket on the coat rack. His pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. His unopened bottle of Gatorade in the fridge. His toothbrush in the bathroom. His room. God, his room. I didn't even want to go near it. The guitar he'd never play again, the bed he'd never sleep in again, the clothes he'd never wear again...

No room was safe, because he was everywhere. He had touched them all, and left his mark on each one. It was like a minefield for painful memories, and right now, we weren't ready to deal with it. Soon, but not yet.

We were considered tough by all who knew us. Our enemies trembled before us because they knew we were strong as hell apart and virtually invincible together. No one seemed to deny that we had balls of steel.

We weren't arrogant, we were just acutely aware of the impression we made on others. It was confirmed time and again by the way people scattered like frightened pigeons when we walked by. We'd all overheard the rumors. We knew what our labels were. Some we felt we had earned, and some we felt we didn't deserve, but regardless of our personal pride or resentment of them, they lingered. They stuck like Trident in Ma's shag carpeting (Angel can be blamed for the inspiration of this analogy) and we had learned to live with them. Sometimes, we even learned to exploit them. We Mercer boys were, according to the grapevine at least, trouble-makers at best and monsters at worse. Blemishes on society. Good for nothing. Never capable of amounting to a thing. Run like hell, good citizens of Detroit. Don't look into their eyes; they'll turn you to stone. Speak only if spoken to, and God help you if you show anything other than perfect deference. We Mercers are considered "ruthless," "barbaric," and "cruel," among about a hundred other things, not one of which is positive.

I'd place my life on the table in a wager that they'd have different descriptors now. "Devastated," "inconsolable," and "broken," to name a few. And damned if we'd be ashamed to admit the appropriateness of the adjectives. To deny their truth would only be an attempt to lessen the impact Jack had had on us, and we knew better. Our hearts knew better.

We had developed quite the negative rap for our past mistakes. The way we changed after Jack's death tore that reputation to shreds. The gossip was proven to be complete bullshit. We were obviously not tough enough to handle this all at once. Not one of us had the courage to deal with that house just yet. After all we had been through at the hands of others and all the shit we had conjured up since, we could not walk through the door of our own home. So much for invincible.

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Since the tragic death of our brother, Bobby had been staying with me, at Camille's gentle insistence. Her suggestion had surprised me, and Bobby too. I'd always known she was wary of my brothers (although I had reminded her at least a million times that it had not been the fault of these three men that I was jaded), and I'll admit I never thought that would change. But Jack's death apparently changed her mind. My wife realized that we love each other immensely and need each other. Rather than corrupting each other, we balance each other. And hell, we may have some unorthodox methods of doing so, but sometimes we even correct each other. This awful event had given her reason to believe Bobby wasn't all bad. Mostly, granted, but not entirely. I guess that's another thing, among a million others, that I have to thank Jack for. It's a shame this had to happen, but perhaps some good will come out of it after all.

As for Angel, he had been staying in a hotel with Sofi. Bobby was thoroughly disgusted by this, as per usual, but I had no personal bone to pick with Sofi and was at the very least grateful to her for supporting Angel through this. I knew he needed her, as I needed Camille, and as we three needed each other. It would take the combined strength of all of us to get over the loss of Jack.

We knew eventually we'd have to go home and begin to pick up the pieces –literally– of our home, but for now it was too much. We didn't even have the balls to go back and board up the place. I guess we figured it really didn't matter. Let the looters have at it. Let them steal whatever they wished. The two things that mattered most had already been stolen from us. There was nothing more valuable in this world.

I can't speak for Angel's coping methods, but Bobby closed himself off completely for several days after the funeral. He locked himself in Amelia's room, which Camille had offered in spite of my daughter's protests at being stuck sleeping with her sister and Bobby's protests that he "didn't fucking want to inconvenience anyone." In any case, he gave in and was grateful for the hospitality, and Amelia found that she missed Uncle Jack more than she'd expected and was kind of relieved to be with her sister when the nightmares about his death came to trouble her. She hadn't seen Jack die, of course, but I knew she had a vivid imagination and would struggle with what it conjured up in the face of her ignorance to the situation. It would create the details for her, and I could only be there to help her cope with them.

As for Bobby's reclusive reactions, I knew better than to bother him. Even when I was concerned, I let him be. He only left the room to relieve himself, bathe, or accept the plates of food Camille sweetly left on the hall table. Bobby didn't want to see anyone at the moment, and we all were human enough to understand that and take no personal offense. He just needed to be alone, and there was nothing wrong with that. I needed Camille and my girls, and Angel needed Sofi, but Bobby needed Jack. And Jack was gone.

_Jack._ I remember the day Evelyn brought Jack home. It's so clear in my mind, it's almost impossible to believe it was almost seven years ago. I had taken one look at the kid and decided he was in desperate need of my mother's warmth and concern. He had a shock of dark blond hair and the widest blue eyes I'd ever seen. He tried to appear tough, but to no avail. He was thin as a rail, and I recall thinking that I could snap him over my knee like a twig. I had not known then how strong he was, and I don't just mean physically. I learned soon enough. After finding out what he had been through and how he had survived the experiences, my respect for him went through the roof, and there it has remained to this day.

Early on, however, his self-sufficiency was not so apparent. Jack had clung to Ma like she was a lifeline against the currents of uncertainty, but eventually she had pried him loose from her skirt and gently told him that he needed to learn to be by himself. Jack had taken this with surprising grace, but I think we were all spared a hissy fit because he'd already figured out that Bobby was decent for leeching onto as well. Bobby had let him, and when Jack became too needy, he simply transferred him to Angel. I was a last resort, which I maintain to this day didn't offend me, although Bobby teased me often that I was green with jealousy because the little fairy wasn't more worshipful of me. It wasn't so. Bobby was the oldest, and Jack respected and feared him as such, and Angel was closer in age to him than I was. I was just kind of in the middle. I always had been, and this was nothing to resent Jack, of all people, over. I guess I was a little envious, because I adored the kid once Ma had tamed him and he'd assimilated himself into our little family. But I learned never to expect the heroic pedestal he put Bobby on. Only room for one up there. I was okay with that. I was grateful that he'd accepted me at all.

I appreciated and enjoyed what little time I did get to spend with Jack as he grew up, and only have begun to wish now that there had been more of it. I suppose I should just be thankful, but I'll be the first to admit that I'm disappointed. I'd have been more greedy with my little brother's attention had I known then what I know now.

I was never as close to Jack as I'd like to claim, but perhaps we didn't need to be joined at the hip to know our bond ran as deep as any other. I'd like to think this was the case. I have to think it was. I could never forgive myself if I had the slightest inkling that Jack thought I didn't love him as much as the other two.

No one could fault Jack for idolizing his larger-than-life older brother, and no one now could fault Bobby for refusing to suck it up and pretend everything was fine. I think in some ways (although I'd never tell Bobby this), Jack was Bobby's little hero. Theirs was a mutual respect, although Jack was definitely more obvious about it. Bobby teased him endlessly, often making him the butt of jokes calling his sexual orientation into question, but we all knew he was crazy about the kid. He complained that Jack never left him alone or gave him a moment's peace, but we knew he wouldn't have it any other way.

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So I gave Bobby his space. He'd grieve in the only way he knew how, by shutting himself off, and then hopefully he'd snap out of it. When he was damn good and ready, of course, and not a moment sooner. I knew he'd come out and join our ranks again eventually, and would likely need our support in getting back to the swing of things. We were all prepared to offer it with both hands. We knew he'd never ask for it, but he'd never need to.

Sure enough, Bobby emerged at last. Angel and Sofi, who had practically been on call since he had barricaded himself in my daughter's room, were quick to check out of their hotel and join us in the house. Finally, we were a family again. A little worse for the wear, but solid as ever. Broken but not irreparable. We came together for Ma at her funeral, for ourselves afterward, and for Jack now. Damned if we would let his treasured family fall to pieces.

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One night while we sat in my kitchen having a beer and talking about nothing in particular, getting in a cheap shot below the belt every now and then as we consistently do, Bobby confessed to me that my oldest daughter had posited an interesting point to himself and Jack after Ma's funeral had commenced and we had all gathered at my house. Allegedly, Daniela had, much to Jack's apparent amusement, challenged Bobby's claim of uncle-hood based on the fact that he was white. My youngest, Amelia, had rebuffed her sister by reminding Daniela that their Grandma Evie was white, and although this had settled the miniature debate, Bobby was sure Daniela had remained unconvinced. Bobby had taken this little conversation in stride at the time, chalking it up to the child's ignorance of the workings of the world, but admitted to me that he had gradually become a little disturbed by her words. When he'd brought up the anomaly to Jack to feel out where his brother stood on the issue, the kid had apparently shrugged and deadpanned, "This is fucking Detroit, Bobby. What more can you expect from her?" Now, seeing as Jack had provided no definitive answer, he asked the same of me. How could I let my daughter believe a family had to be either all white or all black to be a real family, he wanted to know.

Bobby was more miffed than I'd ever seen him that I seemed hesitant to correct my little girl's mistake. If only to shut him up, I was tempted to remind Daniela of this episode and give her a lecture on the importance of the bonds of the spirit as well as those of blood. What defines a family is not genetics. It's love. And she should know that. Nevertheless, I left it alone. I knew it wasn't intentionally racist on my daughter's part, and that she only needed clarification.

Once she has the chance to spend more time with her daddy's adoptive family, she'll come around on her own to the satisfactory conclusion Bobby was vying for. We'll do all we can to give her a sense of who Jack was and why he fit so perfectly into the bigger picture, as well, and hopefully our love for him will shine through enough to shatter her societally-encouraged boundaries. She's young, but not blind, and decidedly not stupid. She'll get it soon enough, I'm sure. She just hasn't been exposed to it much in her lifetime. Her uncles have been absent for most of it, but I know she will come around and learn to think of them as the truest form of family. It has always been painfully obvious to anyone who observes the Mercers long enough that although blood may run thicker than water, love is more abundant in this case than either of them or both combined. My daughter will be all the stronger for this realization, and I'm happy we can serve as an example for it.

For days after his story-telling session, Bobby kept needling at me to correct her, but I didn't intend to scold her; after all, when it comes right down to it, can you blame her for being confused? In a world where we have the power to divide humans into two categories by using simple words such as "black" and "white," can a child be at fault for her prejudiced mind?

I really hate that dichotomy. Black versus white. Who the fuck cares. It isn't a contest.

In the end, we're all the same. Blacks die. Whites die. People die. It's a fact of life, and something everyone has to come to terms with at some point. People are born, and then they die. Another dichotomy I hate, but a fact nevertheless.

I know it's a fact, but I still find myself constantly asking God why it had to be _my _brother, _my _Jack. Why it had to be this way. Why it had to be this time. Why, why, why.

I think of my family, and realize Jack will never have one of his own. We were all the family he would ever have. I just hope we were enough.

He dreamed of fame. He dreamed of stardom. He dreamed of thousands of screaming fans. He dreamed of devoting a life to his passion. Living for music. Living the dream. Becoming more than he was expected to be. Startling the crap out of everyone who had ever said he'd amount to nothing. He probably dreamed of earning the respect of his brothers through his accomplishments, never knowing that we hadn't doubted him for a second. I hope that in spite of his need to show off for our attention, he knew deep down that he had nothing to prove to us. Jack dreamed of a bright future, and it had been ruthlessly snatched away from him.

I somehow doubt Jack dreamed of dying alone in the snow next to his shot-up house, screaming for his brothers who were too busy trying to kill his killers to help him.

Bobby swore up and down that night in the bar after we buried our little brother that this was intentional. He was convinced they had picked Jack out as the weakling and decided to take him out to really destroy us. He was hopping mad about it, but I knew it was just his grief talking. Bobby knew the truth as well as I did: Jack was not their target. I don't believe they somehow knew he would be the one to materialize in the doorway. How could they have known that we were arguing in there, or that Jack would gladly leap at any opportunity to avoid the confrontation? They couldn't have.

I am convinced that they, whoever_ they_ were, had no intended target. They didn't need one. They knew that sooner or later, one of us would have to answer that door. They'd take out whoever it was, because it didn't matter which brother. The impact would be the same, for we were equals. Each of us meant the world to the other three...no prejudices or favoritism here.

They probably thought that by killing one of us, they'd kill all of us. Or at least the best part of us.

In this, they were right. They did kill the best part of us. They killed Jack.

They might have believed that by making one last fell swoop into our family, they would kill our spirit. That they would be able to quash our lust for revenge by taking out another member. That perhaps we'd get tired of having to constantly start the grieving process from square one again and simply give up. That Jack's death would be too much for us, and we'd cave. That our so-called "family" would not survive the experience, and we'd separate and lose all sense of unity. That they'd be able to catch us weak and off-guard and defeat us easily because there'd be no strength in numbers once we all had been reduced to a state of constant grief.

In this, they were wrong.

They forgot one very important thing: _we're still the Mercers._ One down, sure, but three to go who will adamantly refuse to lose more than they already have. Three who will not rest until they've had their vengeance. Three who will rise from their knees and stand together and be as invincible as ever.

No blood ties may exist between us, but we are a real family. We always have been. Granted, each of us grew up facing difficult situations that were only similar in the way they affected the four of us, respectively, but all did boast a certain degree of bullshit and the details really don't matter. We were screw-ups of the worst variety, and had no idea that the word "family" could have a positive connotation. We trusted no one and allowed ourselves to get attached to no one. We couldn't afford to. Our lives were too unstable, and it seemed that we inevitably infected everyone around us. Our negative auras were contagious. It never failed. Our pasts and the misery that accompanied them were as a debilitating disease, crippling our ability to connect with others or even with ourselves. When we cared for someone, even in the slightest bit, we shoved them away. For their own good. Ask any of us; we'd all say the same thing. We pushed people away for many reasons, but mostly because we didn't trust ourselves around them. We were like King Midas in a way, I guess, except that it seemed everything _we _touched turned to shit.

Then along came Evelyn. As she made her way into our lives and our hearts, she performed a miracle with each of us. It still astounds me to this day. She must have had the patience of a saint. Even when we gave her shit, she refused to back down, and eventually, we learned to admire that trait in her. After a time, we grew to love her for it. She never gave up. She adopted four mismatched, self-proclaimed bad-asses, and somehow created a family.

We're different, yes. Two of us are black, and two of us are white. Bobby is hot-headed and impulsive, Angel is girl-crazy and military-hardened, I am the family man with wild ambitions, and Jack was the sensitive one with a conscience and a heart of gold.

We have some things in common, of course. All kids like us do. Nothing extraordinary there. Shitty pasts, uncertain futures. Getting raped by the system. Bouncing around from one foster home to the next.

The other things, however, _do _make us extraordinary. Evelyn. Our family. Our brotherhood. Our love for each other.

I think it is quite possible that we love each other even more than most of the "real" families out there.

Sure, there are families whose members claim they'd die for each other. For the Mercers, it's not a claim. It's a vow. We know it. We understand this without ever lending voice to it.

Jack knew. He was willing to die for us. He died for that bond. He died for this family.

He might have been a fucked-up kid, but somewhere along the line, Jack Mercer had turned into a man of his word, and I'd like to think I had a hand in that.


End file.
